  Give me the bowl! The boon of freedom to my weary soul Hath come at last; the hour of calm release, When all the restless storms of life may cease, And time's dark billows, as they onward roll, Shall sweep above my silent grave in peace. Long, long in sadness hath my spirit yearn'd For freedom from the heavy bonds of flesh; And earthly hopes and earthly pleasures spurn'd: And while the quenchless fire within it burn'd, Hath sighed for streams immortal, to refresh Its drooping wings, that it might upward soar, Beyond the curtains of the vaulted sky, Within the veil that hides Eternity; And drink the tide of bliss, and weep no more! ***** It is a bitter draught! Meet emblem of Death's cruel bitterness; To those who love life more, or loathe it less; Yet in its mingled poison have I quaff'd The fountain, whose undying strength shall waft The heir of life immortal to those shores, Where the full tide of its bright glory pours! Yet may this be a vision! I have dream'd Of future time—of years beyond the grave; Of brighter worlds far o'er the whelming wave; And on my raptured fancy there hath gleam'd. The image of a thousand hidden things, That reason may not trace; and wisdom brings No clue to read; and weary thought turns back, All hopeless from the dark, bewildering track. ***** 'Tis drain'd! and mingled with the streams of life, The venom pours through every swollen vein: The race is run—fought is the field of strife; And bleeds the vanquish'd now upon the plain, No more the conflict to essay again! ***** Oh, Source Eternal! Being Infinite! To whom—though blindly, from this darksome prison, Where doubt and error reign in ceaseless night— The worship of my spirit long hath risen; No more I doubt—no longer wavering, I offer incense to a God unknown, But, from the altar of my bosom, fling Its fragrance at the footstool of thy throne; And as the film of death obscures my sight, The vision of thy presence grows more bright! ***** 'Tis almost o'er! My wildered senses roam— A thousand harps the balmy air are filling! A thousand angel voices wildly thrilling, Are calling, 'Kindred spirit, haste thee home!' Speed, speed, my ling'ring soul!—'I come! I come!' Wilmington, (Del.,) August, 1837. |
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